"How are you doing that without stabbing yourself?" Sarah asks from her perch on the antique vanity chair, watching me with genuine fascination as I maneuver pins between my teeth.
"Grams taught me that multitasking is just witchcraft for busy people," I mumble around a flake of pastry. "Something about chaos being the natural state of existence, so we might as well get comfortable with it."
"Aren't you just precious," Delilah purrs, angling her phone to capture her reflection while her red curls cascade in calculated perfection. "Though this backstage drama is absolute gold for my followers. Hashtag wedding chaos, hashtag bridesmaid duties."
Beyond the windows, Thistlewood's manicured grounds have been transformed into a vision of matrimonial perfection—rows of ivory chairs facing the dogwood-draped archway, fairy lights threaded through century-old oaks, the Blue Ridge Mountains rising like nature's own cathedral in the distance. Late May in West Virginia is showing off. Warm enough for bare arms, cool enough that nobody's melting into their formal wear.
It's breathtaking. The kind of wedding setting that makes you believe in fairy tales and happily-ever-afters, and thewild possibility that love actually conquers all. Which probably explains the strange tightness in my chest whenever I look at it too long.
"There," I announce, knotting off Dixie's hem. "Crisis averted."
"You're a lifesaver," Sarah says, and the genuine warmth in her voice makes me flush. "Seriously, stepping in as a bridesmaid this week, I know it wasn't exactly what you signed up for."
"It's no problem at all. I'm glad I did."
I'm a sucker for weddings, always have been. Not just the pretty parts, but the whole messy, beautiful spectacle of it. The way love makes people brave enough to promise impossible things in front of witnesses. How even the most jaded guests get misty-eyed when the couple exchange rings. The faith required to believe that this feeling, this person, this moment, can last forever.
"Mabel!" Kristal's voice pierces through the floorboards from downstairs. "Those flower petals are for scattering, not snacking!"
"Sarah's cousin is going to be floating on a botanical high by ceremony time," Virginia mutters, carefully blending her contour along her sharp cheekbones.
I glance at myself in the mirror as I stand, smoothing down the bridesmaid dress. The silk catches the morning light, somehow making my blue hair look deliberate rather than rebellious. Even Magnolia's subtle grimace during yesterday's final fitting couldn't diminish how right it rests against my skin.
For a tiny reckless moment, I let myself imagine being the one in white instead of blue. Having someone wait for me at an altar, looking like I'm the solution to every puzzle they've ever tried to solve. A partner who'd understand that my vintage teacup collection, and habit of reading multiple books at once, weren't quirks to be tolerated, but pieces of me to be treasured.
For just a second, my brain conjures Caleb in a tux, standing under that flower archway, grinning at me with those devastatingdimples as I walk toward him. The vision hits with such startling clarity that my lungs seize.
I mentally douse myself with ice water.
After the rejection, and the exquisite awkwardness we've been swimming through since, these fantasies aren't just stupid—they're masochistic. He fled my advances like I'd proposed we murder someone together instead of . . . well, what I'd actually put on the table. The man who runs from commitment with Olympic-level skill isn't exactly promising "till death do us part" material.
Which explains why I've thrown myself intowedding-helper modewith borderline manic enthusiasm. Every bobby pin secured, every hem fixed, and every bridal emergency handled means more minutes not dwelling on whatever is happening. Or, more accurately,not happening, between me and Caleb.
"Earth to Ivy," Virginia's crisp voice slices through my spiral. "You're staring at nothing, with an expression that's equal parts tragic and constipated."
"Just contemplating my theoretical future wedding," I deflect, which isn't technically lying. "Someday. Maybe. If I ever find someone who can handle . . ." I gesture vaguely at my entire existence.
"You will," Sarah says, with the unshakeable confidence of someone who stumbled into love while jogging through Boston Common. "The right man's going to take one look at you and realize he's completely screwed."
If only it were that simple.
"Alright, ladies!" Kristal's voice cuts through the moment. "Hair and makeup final checks! We're T-minus thirty minutes to showtime!"
The girls scatter around the room, taking last minute selfies while Sarah nervously glances out the window.
"Ivy!" Kristal appears at my elbow, her perfectly highlighted hair not daring to move despite her obvious stress. "The men arecollectively useless. Can you make sure they haven't messed up their boutonnieres, and that Matt hasn't hyperventilated into unconsciousness?"
"On it," I say, grateful for the distraction.
The groom's quarters reek of expensive cologne and raw anxiety. Matt's pacing circuits have worn an imaginary path in the carpet, his expertly styled hair already showing the telltale signs of nervous fingers. Preston's lecturing Dean about proper pocket square technique, while Jefferson and Carter have vanished—probably interrogating the catering staff about whiskey selections.
And then there's Caleb.
He's posed against the window frame, morning light silhouetting him so perfectly it's almost unfair. The tux transforms him from my familiar disaster, into something that sends my pulse into a stutter. That stubborn cowlick at his crown is fighting valiantly against whatever product they slathered through his hair, and he looksdevastating.
Mouth-dryingly, thought-scatteringly handsome.
Enough to send my heart thudding painfully against my ribs.
